Lord Shiva in the House of Joy
by Kalima
Summary: The 8th Doctor's search for self-knowledge in St Louis. The rating is for some explicit language. There is no explicit anything else.


Here's the disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of BBC. I make no claims otherwise. I'm just having fun. Lord Shiva in the House of Joy 

By Kalima

I must have heard the accent through the babble of my girls doing their come-on pitches, and the sailors and salesmen with voices rough or plum from drink, Duke Ellington on radio - somewhere inside the white noise of that, the Englishman's voice pushed its way under the door of my office.

I remember parting the blinds with two fingers, the sneak peek I used to keep tabs on everything and everyone, searching for the face to match the voice I assumed belonged to a man from my home country. I saw the semi-regulars through a haze of smoke: travelling salesmen, an alderman or two, a merchant seaman here, a soldier there. When I saw him though, it was clear he did not belong.

Oh, men often look nervous the first time, smoking cigarette after cigarette, tossing the whiskeys back one after another to prop up their courage. He did neither. A cigarette smouldered in the ashtray next to him, but he never took a drag that I could see. Sometimes he would pick up his glass, hold it for a while as he looked about the room, then he'd place it carefully on the table beside the dancing hula girl lamp. He seemed to find the lamp delightful whereas the naughty picture book in his lap got no more than a cursory glance. He was a good-looking man for all that he was out of place and I figured he might have been a nancy trying to convince himself he wasn't. Yet he struck me as more out of place than even that. His light brown hair was trimmed and combed in a manner that was currently stylish but it looked unnatural on him somehow, and he was wearing clothes that were fashionable but resembled a costume put on for the purpose. His efforts to blend and fit in would have been suspect for other reasons, but he didn't have the look of a cop or any representative of moral authority. Besides, I'd paid my dues to the local constabulary earlier in the week.

Over the course of the evening I watched as my girls approached him, teased and offered as required, hand on his knee, lips brushing close to his ear, a flash of bosom or the bare flesh of a thigh between the stocking and the garter belt. Tempting him to choose. Did he want young flesh or more experienced? Did he like fat Mae or thin Veronica? Tall Babe or short Esther? The dark-haired sultry Bobbie or cool blonde Alice?

"Thank you. I haven't quite made up my mind."

Throughout the evening, the ladies came into the parlour and went out with different fellows and came back again. Him still sitting there, sometimes calm and thoughtful, sometimes gnawing his thumbnail, knee bouncing nervously. Until, finally, the girls were too worn out from their other clients to make much effort on his behalf. And I could see they were beginning to resent his presence anyway, his lack of commitment to whatever course had brought him to my house. It was possible he was seeking vicarious pleasure without having to pay. Intervention was necessary. I asked Billy Ray to invite him into my office for a chat.

"I have money," he said taking a handful of crumpled bills from his pocket as if he'd read my thoughts. I could see several twenties and at least two hundred dollar bills in the wad he placed on my desk. He looked from the money to me and suddenly smiled. "Oh, you're not what I expected at all."

The look unnerved me for a moment. So intrusively piercing and at the same time full of…appreciation? I wasn't quite sure. "What did you expect?"

"And English too! How interesting. I wouldn't have thought—"

"I can assure you, sir—'

"Please, call me Doctor."

I was careful not to smirk. "If you like. I can assure you, _Doctor_, that they do have prostitutes in England as well."

"Yes of course. I didn't mean— it's just that you're much younger than I thought a person in your position would be."

"I'm older than I look."

"Oh, so am I."

"Well, you seem young enough to enjoy the pleasures available in my house. Perhaps what we offer here doesn't suit your needs. It's rather basic, though we pride ourselves on our artistry."

"Basic?"

"Missionary position, or man supine five dollars. From behind or 'doggie style' as it's sometimes known – is ten. It's rougher on the girls, you see. You want Latin, two and two bits—"

"Latin?"

"Fellatio. Cunnilingus."

"Oh."

"Greek – sorry, anal intercourse is fifteen and at the discretion of the lady involved. If you want her to spank you, tie you up, what have you, extra charge. If you want to do that sort of thing to her, once again at her discretion and such activities must not result in any injury or Billy Ray will beat the living crap out of you. If you want to watch a couple do the bumpy, or watch two girls together it's the same price as doing them. If you want to do two girls at once, thirty dollars. Combinations are negotiated through me. If you want _me_ – well – fifteen dollars for you on top or me on top. And I will do anything else I've mentioned but it will cost you a lot more – not because I'm better at it than the others, but because it takes me away from my desk, and running a business is hard work so I have to make it worth my while, you understand?"

He stared at me, eyes big and mouth open then he blushed and looked down at his lap. I couldn't see his hands in his lap, but I suspected he was wringing them. "It isn't very romantic, is it?"

"You want romance," I said, "go see a movie."

"Oh, that's a splendid idea! Would you like to see a movie with me? Wuthering Heights is playing at the Oriental—"

"No. I don't want to see a movie with you. We don't socialize with the clientele outside these walls."

"I'm not a client yet."

"Well, Doctor, if you don't intend to be a client at Vida Miller's house of joy, then I shall have to ask you to leave—"

"No, please." He reached across the desk and grabbed my hand. I would have pulled it away, started to in fact, started to do a great number of things, but then --- then he hooked me, the bastard. Hooked me proper. It was something in his eyes, such despair and longing. The longing was not for me, or what I offered, but for something else, something lost and unrecoverable.

He glanced away as if I'd seen too much. "Please. I'm not sure why I've come here. I thought I knew when I decided to come but now I—" His eyes on my face again. "I need to learn everything I can about myself. And this is a part I haven'texplored yet. I've been looking for a long time, and then recentlychanced upon a passage in the Kama Sutra where Lord Shiva takes his beautiful consort upon his lap, unites with her and, rising, they move through time and space – and I thought, now that's something I haven't tried yet! I am meant to move through time and space, I'm certain of it—"

"I believe the passage you refer to is metaphorical. And don't we all move in time and space after a fashion?"

"Yes, yes, yes, but it's not _merely_ a metaphor. One can transcend the limits of time and space. I know it's possible. I don't know how I know, but…" He gave his head a small shake. "At any rate, I've done some preliminary study. In fact, a Tantric yogi master advised me to engage in a method of self-gratification where I was to envision my third eye—"he pointed to the center of his forehead—"as the sacred yoni, and while I was, er, gratifying myself I should imagine this yoni in the middle of my forehead opening like a flower. He was certain this would help me to remember who I am.Only I couldn't quite visualize an actual yoni. So I went to the library. The librarians weren't keen on loaning out books with pictures of yonis, I can tell you that. In fact,after I explained what a yoni was, well, they got very upset. I was escorted out rather forcefully. But without an image to work from how could I begin to…? Apparently one needs a visual cue for that sort of thing." He paused, let go my hand, and acknowledged my amusement with a rueful grin of his own. "I thought perhaps if there were an actual woman involved, it might not seem so ridiculously self-indulgent and deluded."

Suddenly, some part of what he'd said sunk in. "Wait. You don't remember who you are? You've lost your memory, that what you're saying?"

"Significant portions of it, yes."

"I imagine your doctor wouldn't recommend regular visits to a whorehouse as a cure."

"Probably not. But I'm not currently seeing a doctor. I'm my own doctor now."

Never a good idea, I thought. "Thus you call yourself Doctor," I said.

"Actually, the title is one of the only things I do remember. Sometimes I'm afraid of what will happenwhen I do remember. I worryI must have done something awful, committed some atrocity like those doctors in the death camps."

"Death camps?"

"The Germans. They have imprisoned thousands of Jews. More everyday. They experiment on them, starve them, kill them. The count will be in the hundreds of thousands before the Americans even enter the war. Millions before it'sover."

I didn't ask how he knew this. At that time, hardly anyone knew, and wouldn't have believed such horrors were possible. But many able-bodied Englishmen were already fighting in Europe, men older than him. Perhapshe _had_ done something too awful to remember -- run from battle,betrayed his countrymen. Perhaps he was an agent or a spy? He didn't look the sort, but what did I know? He kept talking.

"I know my problem seems small when set against these larger issues, and believe me I'm not confident this will be any sort of cure, but I've nothing to lose in trying. I'm willing to try anything at this point." He laughed, quietly bitter. "Goodness, that sounds so desperate, doesn't it? But, you see, I need to know what sort of man I am or I can't—I don't think I can go on." He began to straighten the bills on my desk, smoothing them out like shirts for the iron. "Here, take whatever you think is fair. I'm willing to place myself under your expert tutelage."

I looked at the money and counted it automatically. Five hundred forty dollars and a bit. I took a deep, deep breath and let it out slow. "All right," I said. I locked five hundred of it in my safe and handed him the rest. Then I took his hand and led him to my boudoir. My real bedroom, not the one I used upstairs.

"It's rather like riding a bicycle," I assured him.

"Oh good," he replied. "I didn't even have to think about how to ride a bicycle."

He didn't have to think much about riding me either once he'd relaxed. But, oh lord, he could ride for such a very long time. I was forced to call in the reserves.

We did what we could, my girls and I. And we liked him. He was…gracious I suppose you could say, generous, and respectful . He was a strange man, and indeed, there were things about him too strange for me to speak of even to this day, but we _liked_ him. I liked him. Once he even made us all breakfast, which got our coloured cook Hattie all in a huff until he pulled out a chair for her at the table and served her Eggs Benedict, orange juice and champagne with the rest of us.

But when his five hundred dollars ran out, he seemed worse off than on that first night when he'd handed it to me. I felt a little guilty. He hadn't remembered anything important or significant, though I was confident he'd got his money's worth otherwise. He told me as much several times.

"Doctor." I took hold of his hand as he was leaving.

"Yes, Vida?"

"Why did you leave England? Why come to St. Louis, city of sin, for heaven's sake?"

"I've been carrying around a note in my pocket that says I'm to meet someone in St. Louis. The date is years from now, but I'd hoped the place would hold memories for me. It doesn't."

"Where will you go now?"

"I'm returning to England."

"I'll never go back there," I said, "Too many memories."

"Then I envy you."

"Don't."

He shrugged. I squeezed his hand. "Listen to me. Whoever you were, whoever you _are_, the reason for this amnesia could not have been because you're a bad man. I've never been so sure of anything in my whole life."

He drew in a soft breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then he clasped me to him suddenly; a hug that pushed the air from my lungs with its fierceness. "Thank you," he whispered. I felt a sudden sentimental thickness in my throat. Tears were sure to follow. I struggled out of his grasp.

"Okay, okay, enough of that. Time is money, lover, and you're fresh out."

He drew back, and gave me the naughtiest grin. "It has been a pleasure knowing you, Miss Miller."

"The pleasure was all mine, Lord Shiva."

Two years later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour and a lot of youngsters became men inmy housebefore they shipped out, and died on foreign soil crying for their mothers. My own son was only nineteen. I hadn't seen him since he was a baby. Mae lost both her brothers, and Alice, her father. It was a hard time for everyone. And I found myself thinking of the Doctor often, wondering how he was, if he'd discovered a wife, children he'd forgotten, was seeing patients at his surgery in Lambeth, or somewhere equally dull. Iimagined all sorts of ordinary pleasures for him.

I saw him again in St Louis, years later. It was 1963 and I'd just turned fifty-nine. He looked different, but not a day older. And for some reason it didn't bother me at all, didn't even seem strange. He told me he hadn't recovered any lost memories. He seemed easier with it, though. "I've lived. I've had fabulous adventures, new memories to fill the void. It's not so bad. Not great, but not bad."

We went and saw the Kings of Rhythm at the Peppermint Club. We weren't the only white couple there, but certainly the oddest. We bought a bottle of bourbon on our way back to the hotel I called home.

That night, I learned it was possible for people to transcend the perceived limits of time and space, to rise up and move through – not backwards or forwards but rather to slip through at an angle, obliquely. And that sometimes, just sometimes, Time stands still, and watches us.

-Fin-

love and kisses from Kalima, July 2001


End file.
